Poems serious and silly.

Wargaming (Wet Grain #2)

“When loss betideth one, whose eyes are set
On gain, how great his passion and regret!”

Ok, so here are the rules:
You might find it complicated at first
But the basic idea, is that
There are two sides and
They are at war
It all makes sense

1          Brother stands alone.
Dead: Immobile in failure
His elephant carrying
His broken crown
To be pinned to the royal board
The other, remaining
Weeps bitterly
Slowly carrying four divisions on
His back back home

2          Under siege
We fight with sticks and names
Until your brother, who
We playfully hate
Gets clonked by the log I
We enthusiastically drop on him.
We hear his skull.
He screams, runs back to the house and
I am
We are afraid

3          An old man sits
Beating himself in the park
Moving his pieces backwards and forwards.
A young man sits
Beating himself in the PC-Bang,
Smoke drifts over ruins
People won’t watch.

4          /C: allisurvey
Kill-feeding in his mother’s basement
Gazing at the screen
Pulls right trigger
Another bug-splat in Waziristan.
In Jalabad. In Al Uwaynat.
Millions are pre-rendered as empires
Rise and fall in glorious real-time
/C: allisurvey
Peels his hand away, didn’t realise
How much he was sweating

5          Make us a mythos:
Make us an evil that is tangible but can also
Exist anywhere at anytime.
An evil with laser guns and an alien hive mind
That lives only to consume.
An evil that is handheld.
Make us undefeatable
Make us doomed
Make us the finest
Make our odds impossible

6          Open the vaults

Gaze upon your fathers’ treasures
thick and rich

7          The leaves lie
thick and rich

8          The blood pools
thick and rich

9          The land boils
thick and rich

So you see, it wasn’t really me
who killed him, mother.
His heart was simply defeated.

File:"Gav and Talhand in Battle", Folio from a Shahnama (Book of Kings) MET  sf20-120-242.jpg - Wikimedia Commons

Nigel No-Mates (Wet Grain #1)

 NIGE:      falling from the air dressed to impress
            landing in the paddling pool sea 
            struggling to the surface swimming in place 
            calling out 
            receiving no answer
            pulling himself on to the plastic riddled shore
            lying face down washed over by waves
            shaking hands 
            down low, too slow
            Falling In Love
            trying to be more statuesque
            competing with the other mannequins
            receiving no answer
            standing sill whilst the days skim over him
            gently applying her makeup
            not knowing the myth of Pygmalion
            being a right Pygmalion
            exhibiting anti-social behaviour
            rejecting the friendship of others
            found the next morning
            lying still in the arms of his lover
            receiving no answer 

“Dun-Krititunk” (Goodbye Scarecrow)

 Dun-Krititunk waits,
 the old weather beater. 
 Skulduggering on his corner stool
 upright, uptight …damned back excepting,
 rounding on itself: 
 Wind-worn hilltop insisting recompenses 
 As he, well wheeled barrow that he is
 Filchingly watches his shadow cast itself 
 Realises he had not expected the sun,      
 To fall quite so far behind.
 Wonders if putting
 His mind to it might make it draw out, 
 Far enough from his false agate stone
 (on the middle finger of an Alderman)
 Until that untouched early dawn glimmer
 Is really all that:  a.
 [Remains sitting]
 Starved as he is
 for lack of rats feet 
 he sucks his tongue
 chews measuredly
 the ornery leather strap
 careful not to crack
 the unused surface.
 Scared if he did he would find no
 No, not a little blood.
 [“For Moisture!”]
 Sucking the old skin
 Shedding and reborn 
 again in tiny clickin’ parts.
 with no butterfly 
 nor caterpillar
 So In 
       SO ‘of   and
            So    on 

Nige The Great

Believing himself the last of his kind
The Great Modernist Icon clings to his high perch
watching across his Agean to Titahi Bay
for white sails
from white spattered cliff.
Desperately displaying to the birds.

“No time for fake people!”
He repeats
and watches
and works on her bone structure
and remembers how
he once growled through the crowds
white feathers reeking of motor oil and leather.
spit and
-spit preferring eyes as much as salt water-
listen for speakers blaring out People Noise
then swill and down and (winking)
make his way over.

And we, all decked out
in green, in purple, in leopard
would listen;

He was the smartest thing in the room
by default.
Now he is the smartest thing in the room
by default.

What he doesn’t know
Is just how many we still have to work through after him
There are still so many bones
strung to this desolate post, embedded so deep.

The Great Modernist Icon
picks through whale guts
in search of things for the display
that will finally win her
from plastic, from seaweed, from driftwood,
he builds his honour
“They called it Mana.”
His voice catches on the wind, tears
and she cannot hear.

The Great Modernist Icon
watches the giving of flowers
and does not cry.

Road Code

 These ways, emptied for now
 Will soon roil again
 But it’s a nice way to spend time together
 Later, Dad jokingly says: 
 “I think my greatest contribution was remaining calm.”
 He makes the same joke twice, to the same person 
 It is untrue both times
 Signals warn and inform other road users
 Warnings are separate from orders.
 How to calculate total stopping distance:
 Our long broken white lines
 Stay between
 Keep to the left
 Only overtake when ready
 You should always jkkfjhlsfalsjdfadgfajshf
 “It’s nice to actually look out the windows for a change.”
 Mum tells me he takes a lot of long walks now
 All these different crossings, its hard to remember  

Tui and the Supernatural Talent

Slowed but still crawling over the crest, 
Tama-nui-te-rā pauses
His beaten face turned to the houses built on loose earth
As light-warm floods the basin, small songs rise to meet it
From behind the shiny anti-predator fence 
Amongst evergreens, the unoffending natives 
Who never met with the spite of God
The little opera singer 
Bobs anxiously in black tailcoat and white cravat 
On stage, but no song
Until suddenly, as if with supernatural talent
His performance begins 
Imitating perfectly the eloigned languages of his fellows
Stopping and beginning again another abruptly anew 
He knows he must impress;
He’s in all the expensive cards, a favourite on the radio
So is utterly unapologetic in his plagiarism, but
You certainly can’t deny the panache of this glorious mimesis
Presumably, other tuis must tell the difference,
Or the whole exercise would be rendered pointless.
For now, we surround the expensive boundaries 
Hacking at the supplicant branches  
For fear of “Introduced Invaders” 
We toast the fire-stealers.
Later when we are gone 
These green trees, at last left alone 
Will quietly overreach the boundary
Our hunters will overrun the border
And amongst all that frightful innocence 
Obsidian blood-warm of Hinē-nui-te-pō will follow her cousin
But there would still be songs preserved
Repeated for a time
With endless variation
With supernatural talent 

%d bloggers like this: